by Tobias Wade
“Or when she gutted herself in the bathroom,” Ender’s voice mounts in intensity. “Are you really that weak—”
“Ender, that’s enough!”
“I can choose anything though?” Jessica asks, the calm of her voice breaking through the tense atmosphere more surely than any shout would.
“Anything!” Mackenzie gushes, veritably dancing around the chairs to place her arms around Jessica’s shoulders. The gesture is nauseatingly familial. “You can walk, or even fly—you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’ve always wanted to be a bird, ever since you were a little girl—”
“Then I choose to be alone.” Jessica pulls away, leaving the seed on the table. She reverses her wheelchair away from the table. “Thank you for dinner,” she adds automatically. “Welcome home, sir,” she adds as an afterthought.
“You shouldn’t be alone—not after what happened last time.” Mackenzie pushes her chair back to stand.
“After what happened last time?” Jessica shoots back.
“It’s too awful to say—”
“Say it!” Jessica shouts, her dry throat twisting her voice into shrill accusation. “Say I killed myself. I didn’t belong here then, and I’m even more of a freak now. While you’re at it, admit you killed yourself too, because you’re not my mother anymore.”
“Don’t you dare—!” Ender bellows.
“And you—why did you have to go, Dad? Why do you always have to go? I didn’t need the surgery. I needed you, and you weren’t there.”
She doesn’t wait for them to respond. This is where she could really use a bedroom door to slam. Even the bathroom lock is broken now. There isn’t anywhere here that is safe for her anymore. Jessica makes a beeline for the front door, trying to listen for the footsteps behind over the sound of her own throbbing heart.
“Jessica, wait—”
“Let her be,” Mackenzie says. “This is her home, and she has nowhere else to go. It’s not like she can hurt herself anymore.”
They’re wrong, Jessica thinks, closing the door behind her. This isn’t my home, and there is plenty besides dying I can do to myself.
The world continues outside, oblivious to the storm raging within. Of all the nights for there not to be a moon. Jessica bounces and rattles down the makeshift plywood ramp leading down from the balcony which Ender had installed before he left. She tries not to think about watching him with his sleeves rolled up, hauling wood from his pickup in the bitter wind. She tries not to hear the echo of her mother’s songs which eased her through her pain into sleep. Her parents were dead, and the sooner she could accept that, the sooner she could…
Could what? Probing fingers of icy air sneak through her thin sweatshirt. The dark sky yawns unending like a bottomless pit, just waiting for her to let go of this world and tumble into it. It was only a few hours ago when she had welcomed death as the final liberation, but her mother—but the thing using her mother’s body—it had been right. She had seen something on the other side, and whatever evil this world cursed her with, she would bear it knowing what was waiting for her beyond.
Crystals of ice crack under her wheels as she aimlessly rolls along the sidewalk. What was it exactly that she had seen? It wasn’t a face exactly, but there was definitely something that had watched her die. It was more like the opposite of a face really. When you see a human, all you see is the outside, but you infer there is a conscious mind within from all the clues the outside gives you. When Jessica had died, she’d been in the presence of a consciousness without a face, but her mind (or her soul, if the mind had been left for dead on the bathroom floor), inferred the face from that. Not a pretty face either. And those hands—the ones forcing her deeper and deeper underwater—those belonged to that face too. They wanted to get rid of her.
Jessica forces her mind away, pulling her stiff fingers inside the lip of her sweatshirt to spare them from the freezing metal chair. She is moving without direction at first—or perhaps every direction is correct as long as it points away from that blasphemous nightmare—but now she finds herself moving with purpose again toward Mr. Wiggins’ house. He was her tutor who had been visiting for the last month since she’d been confined to her chair, and he was the smartest man Jessica had ever met. If anyone could make sense of this situation, it was him.
If she had friends she could trust, maybe she could have confessed to them. Imagining burdening one of her ex-classmates with the events of tonight seems preposterous though. Hi, how ya been? University huh, that’s cool. Well, I killed myself but it’s okay because I’m feeling better now. Except that my parents have been replaced by demons, so I’ve got that going on.
It was tantamount to the dinosaurs seeking each other’s guidance when the meteors began to fall, when none of them had the slightest understanding or ability to change their fate. If there was some warmth to find in their companionship, then she never would have been on that roof where her accident occurred in the first place.
Accident. That’s what she’d told her parents. That she’d been reading a book on the edge when a bird had swooped at her, toppling her off the building in surprise. Everyone had been so caught up in their frantic sympathy that no one bothered to investigate the details too thoroughly. Or perhaps they already knew in their hearts that she’d wanted to kill herself even then, keeping quiet out of fear of their own helplessness. Why would Jessica, beautiful Jessica, perfect Jessica, ever want to hurt herself on purpose?
She’d asked herself the same question many times. She’d even asked it when she was standing on the ledge, forcing herself every excruciating inch toward her fall. It didn’t really matter what the answer was though, because it wouldn’t have been loud enough to be heard over the whirlwind of other thoughts which never seemed to leave her alone. That fascination with destruction must be something that runs in the family.
Footsteps from behind. That’s what Jessica had been expecting, and here they are. The demons are done playing games. They are going to capture her. Torture her. Force her to swallow the evil thing which will grow inside until there’s nothing left of her, and there’s nothing she can do to resist.
7
“Cold out here, isn’t it?”
An unfamiliar voice with a slight Latin accent. Jessica doesn’t turn though. She strains her arms to quicken her pace.
“You’re going to catch your death out on a night like this.” The voice is closer now. Slightly strained, a hopeless longing flirting with desperation. Nothing good could come from such a voice.
“That’s okay,” Jessica replies. She’s not far from Mr. Wiggins’ house. She can even see the white fence glowing with the colored Christmas lights that never came down: a halo of normalcy in a suddenly alien world.
“Your father didn’t go all the way to South Africa for you to go like that. It’s Jessica, right?”
The scuff of metal on metal, and the wheelchair skids to a halt. She still doesn’t turn, but the clouds of her breath thicken in the air.
“He talked a lot about you. When it’s not about packing the right gear or keeping our guns clean, it’s always about you. He never mentioned the wheelchair though. Aren’t you a little young to be—”
The voice comes from directly behind Jessica now, but she doesn’t take her eyes off the Christmas lights. It’s an act of defiance, she tells herself, although that alone doesn’t explain why her heart is beating so fast.
“Aren’t you a little old to ask such a stupid question?”
“Sorry. I was just surprised, that’s all.”
“How did he die?” Jessica asks, still staring straight ahead.
“If he was dead, then I would be too. Sergeant—no—Dantes Sosa. I was with Ender when his eyes changed, but even afterward he still lead us all out of that mine. He’s still in there, Jessica. I’ve come to help bring him back.”
Dantes walks around Jessica’s chair to stand in front of her. She met his eyes—real, human eyes, overflowing with real emotion. Old eyes filled w
ith countless years of regret and pain, somehow embedded in a young face by mistake, stretched wide with sincerity and unmasked fear. It was absolutely shameful how afraid he looked, especially for a soldier. The cold isn’t so bad in that moment though, and Jessica doesn’t turn away.
“What happened, Dantes?” Her voice is spring ice, thin before the thaw. “What was down there?”
He opens his mouth, his jaw working without apparent input from the brain. He lifts his hand toward Jessica with the tentative awe of one presented with a statue that’s more real than life, needing to touch it to prove it’s not real. The halo of Christmas lights behind him glows through the black curls of his hair. For the moment both simply stare at one another, two terrified souls vainly seeking reassurance from the other who has none to give.
“Your father was the only one who saw The Beast, but he wouldn’t say more than that. Something that shouldn’t exist, or if it does, then we’re the ones who shouldn’t exist. Any world which contains one has no room for the other.”
A blast of harsh white light breaks the spell. A door opens behind Dantes, and Mr. Wiggins stands in the portal.
“Jessica? Is that you?”
Jessica angles her chair around Dantes and pushes to move past. His hand lashes out like a drowning man reaching for a life raft. The uncertain pressure of his fingers against her wrist—the two souls reflecting in one another’s eyes—the link broken as swiftly as it is formed.
“You’re lying,” she says, her voice as cold as the air.
“About what?” Dantes asks, taking a step backward, releasing her at once.
“About my father. About why you’re here. You want to kill him, don’t you? Big man with a gun. You’re afraid, and you think killing something will make you feel better.”
Dantes' jaw clenches. “I don’t want to. I’m going to do everything in my power to save him.”
“And if you can’t?”
He doesn’t need to answer. The pain in his face is evident, but Jessica can’t resist probing the wound. “Tell me what you’re going to do if you can’t save my father.”
“The same thing any soldier must do: leave the dead behind,” he says with unexpected sincerity.
“Jessica, are you all right?” Mr. Wiggins calls. “Is that man giving you trouble? Hey, what’s going on out there?” Mr. Wiggins pulls his bathrobe tight, hustling down his driveway like an indignant ham.
“I don’t know yet.” Jessica’s eyes flit between the two. Something between a sneer and a smile is playing about her lips. “Are you giving me trouble, Dantes?”
“Get out of here, punk!” Mr. Wiggins shouts. Ordinarily, Jessica would have laughed to hear the old waddling man say punk as though it were an unforgivable profanity. She doesn’t feel much like laughing now. Dantes takes another step backward. He’s frozen with confusion and indecision, but makes no move to leave.
“He’s all right,” Jessica says after a moment’s scrutiny. “He’s a military man. You can trust military men.”
Dantes grimaces at the sarcastic tone, but Mr. Wiggins seems oblivious to it.
“That’s all right then. What on Earth are you thinking, girl, out on a night like this? Does Mackenzie know where you are?” he clucks, hurriedly bustling around the chair to push Jessica inside. She glances over her shoulder to see if Dantes is following. He hadn’t budged.
“Well?” she asks, raising her eyebrows.
Dantes glances over his shoulder. Then back at her, utterly baffled.
“Aren’t you going to protect me, soldier? Can’t do that out here.”
Dantes grins sheepishly, hustling to follow them inside.
The wisps of Mr. Higgin’s eyebrows extend past either side of his face, and he is making good use of them now.
“Dead? You don’t mean you were dead dead.”
“Dead dead,” Jessica replies adamantly, hunching back over her steaming mug of hot chocolate. She glances uneasily at the looming shadows beyond the aura of kitchen lights. The place is stuffed with leering figurines and small brass sculptures, with shelves overflowing with thick leather books which don’t look far removed from the animal they were made from. Dantes stands rigidly in the corner, half concealed behind a waterfall of hanging beads and trinkets and occult symbols. Jessica always thought it to be a wonderfully eclectic collection when she studied here during the day; now they seem surrounded by baleful artifacts of some forgotten time, imbued with dark promises and malicious intent.
“Do they know you’re here?” Henry asks, his whole face quivering.
Jessica shakes her head and takes another sip. The hot chocolate is the only thing separating her from hell right now.
“But they will—it won’t be hard to figure out.” Mr. Wiggins is pacing, oblivious to his frayed bathrobe which billows about his naked legs. “They’ll find you and they’ll—what? The seed. They’ll force it down you then, is that it? But why haven’t they done that already?”
“I don’t think it works that way. They said I have to willingly accept the thing.”
“So your father accepted it to save his men,” he glances at Dantes, who nods, “and your mother accepted it for your sake. In both cases, the subject underwent severe psychological pain. That means they can still torture you, doesn’t it? They can make your life so miserable that you feel compelled to swallow it, and it would still be your choice to do so. Then bye-bye baby, the thing takes over.”
“You don’t seem shocked by this,” Dantes says.
“Of course I am,” Mr. Wiggins pauses briefly before continuing to wear a track in his carpet. “I’m always shocked by the truth.”
Jessica stares into her mug. The swirling remnants of whipped cream look almost like a specter. She supposes she should be more incredulous about everything, but it’s amazing how easy it is to accept the impossible after being brought back to life. All Mr. Wiggins had seen were the fresh scars on her arm though—that was hardly proof. If anything, his rapid stride seemed indicative of excitement. Dantes is on the other side of the room inspecting what appears to be a shrunken head, although it’s only made from ceramic. Good—somehow Jessica is glad that he didn’t notice her scars too.
“Are they still in there though? Your parents—have they been replaced, or are they merely sharing their body with the entity imbued within them?”
Jessica shrugs helplessly. She glances at Dantes who had been staring at her, but he quickly turns away.
“It would be such a waste if they were dead,” Mr. Wiggins muses, his eyebrows dancing to keep pace with his fantastic thoughts. “They wouldn’t even benefit from their wish. Of course they could always wish something that benefits others, but that would be a steep price to pay. Do you think part of the wish could be to maintain control when the demon was inside you?”
“Demon? Who said anything about—” Dantes begins.
“Of course it’s a demon! What else could it be? It’s not like this is the first credible account of possession. Come, come—you can bring your hot chocolate.”
The manic energy is palpable in the air as Mr. Wiggins hurtles to his bookshelf. She follows him hesitantly into his living room, which is really more like a library with a sofa and a coffee table squeezed into the corner as an afterthought. It’s difficult to maneuver her chair past the assorted piles and figures littering the ground, and even harder to do so without directly looking at the gargoyles and demonic visages which stare stonily at her from all sides.
“Of course there is Goethe’s Faust, although that’s more literary than historical.” The heavy, comforting smell of old books wafts into the air as Mr. Wiggins fans through ponderous volumes, tossing them unceremoniously onto yet another heap on the floor. “Paganini the violinist, St. Theophilus the cleric, Gilles de Rais—at least I should hope he made such a pact. Much worse to think of a human killing 200 children like that. But If I were to do it, I would go more the route of Pope Sylvester II in the 10th century. Mathematics, natural science, philosophy�
��an unheard of genius for his time. Now where do you suppose he learned all that, hmm?”
“I’m not going to accept the deal!” Jessica’s indignant reply. “You’re supposed to be looking for a way to help my parents!”
Mr. Wiggins looks over his round spectacles which had slipped to the end of his nose. A blank stare, then the book he was holding snaps shut.
“Of course my dear, of course. But you can’t fight your enemy if you don’t understand how they think. Now what do you suppose the demons are getting out of this arrangement?”
“We still don’t know they’re—” Dantes tries.
“Demons, aliens, forgotten denizens of a hidden continent—purely philosophical at this point. What matters is that they have an enormous amount of power, and that they’re offering—” He coughs, mumbling his way through whatever fragmented thought was speeding through his head. Mr. Wiggins absentmindedly opens the book he’d just shut and looks down. “Whatever they are, I don’t expect they’re going to all this trouble just to have some fun at being human.”
Jessica moves to the window while he’d been talking. Two figures are standing at the end of the driveway, too far from any street lamps to be clearly visible. Jessica doesn’t need to see their black eyes to know who must be staring back at her. She glances at Dantes, and he nods curtly, following her gaze. Her first instinct is to scream the alarm, but the figures aren’t moving and she doesn’t want to disrupt her tutor from his research. The figures simply stand and watch, still as statues, oblivious to the freezing night.
“… now ‘The Codex Gigas’: there is a true treasure,” Mr. Wiggins happily rattles on. “This bible was created in a 12th century Benedictine monastery in Bohemia, now part of the Czech Republic. It was written by a monk known as Herman the Recluse who reportedly broke his vows and was sentenced to be walled alive inside the monastery as punishment.”
“Please hurry,” Jessica whispers. She can’t take her eyes off the motionless shapes which used to be her parents.
